Pomp and Circumstance
by Tolakasa
Summary: Preseries. It's graduation day at Stanford.
1. Sam

**_Sam_**

They were at the back of the line because the damn clock picked today of all days to malfunction. If Mrs. Moore hadn't called to check on them, they'd _still_ be curled up in bed, comfy and asleep. Right through the biggest ceremonial of their lives. So far.

Location didn't really matter, though, because the roar of the crowd was deafening, even before they got in the stadium. So much for decorum.

Sam didn't realize what he was doing until he was doing it for the fifth time: scanning the sea of faces, looking for some sign that Dad or Dean was there.

How could they be? He hadn't invited them. He hadn't even looked at invitations, except to humor Jess. The only people he knew were either going to be here, graduating, or be here already for Jess. You couldn't mail invitations to people who didn't have mailboxes, anyway.

It was a lousy excuse, and he knew it, and by the way she'd looked at him, even _Jess_ had known it. He could have called. If the numbers he had didn't work, he could have called Pastor Jim—that number had been engraved in his memory before anybody had ever even mentioned memorizing 911, and it hadn't changed.

Of course, they wouldn't have come. Dad had made his feelings about Sam's pursuit of normality quite clear. He hadn't shown up for any of Sam's lesser accomplishments, so why would he show for this one, unless he thought there was a ghost to banish? And Dean—Sam loved his brother, but Dean didn't have the spine to stand up to Dad and make his own decisions. Probably never would.

Still, he searched the crowds in the stadium seats, never mind that they were too far away from the seats on the field to really see anything. Jess saw what he was doing, and reached over and grabbed his hand, said something he didn't hear, but it sounded reassuring.

He should have taken the chance. He should have invited them. He'd always thought the biggest regret of his college career would be not being able to take a class he wanted because he didn't have room for it in the schedule with the ones he had to have. Now he knew better.

He didn't miss the hunting. Never would. But dear _God_, how he missed _them_.


	2. Dean

_**Dean**_

Dad thought he was in New Mexico. And that was the way it was going to stay. Hell, Dad took side trips all the time, if he thought there was something worthwhile to investigate.

Besides, _technically_, Dad hadn't made it an order. Which meant he could take his time about it. He could always say he'd gotten sidetracked by a haunted rest stop. Or pull out the "wrong turn" story.

Hell of a wrong turn, though, to wind up in Palo Alto while trying to get to New Mexico from Pennsylvania.

He'd been scheming to get away on this weekend for months, anyway. He couldn't mention the reasons to Dad, of course, Dad would go batshit. It was getting to the point that Dean looked forward to the jobs he worked alone, because then he could remember the good times without feeling guilty, feeling like he was betraying Dad's trust.

But since Stanford was so nice as to have a whole section of its website dedicated to "Everything You Need To Know About Commencement"...

Dad had probably lost count. Probably didn't even realize that Sammy was due to graduate this year. There was only one date Dad ever remembered. Remembering less-tragic dates, like birthdays, had been Dean's responsibility.

He'd been there for every milestone in Sammy's life—first step, first word, first day at school, high school graduation. He sure as hell wasn't going to miss this one.

He'd gotten here early, because he wanted to be damn sure to get a good seat, even though it meant baking in the sun for several hours. He didn't know why everybody was being so careful to avoid him, though; he'd spent the night doing laundry, just to have clean clothes for this, and he was wearing the jeans with the fewest holes. So what that he wasn't all gussied up? If just _one_ security guard tried to tell him to leave... Well, Sammy might just find out he was here after all.

He wished he'd been able to get tickets to the individual schools' diploma ceremonies. That was where they'd call Sammy's name and he'd march across the stage and get his precious little piece of paper. But those had to be distributed by the students themselves, and Dean was pretty sure Sammy would have called already if he planned on inviting them. Dean hoped he'd made some good money by selling them to classmates with big-ass families. Surely Sammy hadn't forgotten _everything_ Dean taught him.

Dean squinted across the field as the graduates marched in. There he was, near the end of the line. Hard to miss a six-foot-four scarecrow in a cap and gown. And right in front of him was the little blonde that he was living with.

"That's my boy," he said, and grinned.


	3. John

_**John**_

Getting rid of Dean for the weekend was the easy part—a rowdy ghost in New Mexico dealt with that. The hard part was finding something to wear.

That, and not losing his nerve.

And not resorting to a bottle to strengthen his nerve.

Dean had enough bravado to storm the gates of higher education in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, but John wanted to be seen as what he was—for once not a hunter, but a proud parent. Even if the object of that pride had no clue that his father was watching the ceremony. So John gritted his teeth and forced himself to waste perfectly good money on a dress shirt and a new pair of black jeans. (He needed new jeans anyway.) A little polish on the shoes, to hide the scuffs and bloodstains, and he didn't look _too_ out of place. A backwoods relation, maybe. Or a black-sheep uncle.

Not that he cared what the people sitting around him thought.

He'd missed Sammy's high school graduation, thanks to a fight with a stubborn banshee. Sure, he'd missed Dean's too, but the only reason Dean had stayed in school that long was to keep an eye on Sammy. John wasn't even sure that Dean had gotten a diploma. He was reasonably sure nothing on Earth would have gotten his older son to march down an aisle to "Pomp and Circumstance."

The younger, though...

Sammy was easy enough to pick out in the line of graduates: he was the only one at the back of the line who topped six feet. It looked like he'd put on another three inches since John had seen him last. He hoped the boy was going to stop growing at some point, because if Sammy ever _did_ speak to him again, he didn't much relish the thought of having to get on a stepstool to look his son in the eye.

He couldn't make himself look away. He stared at his boy through the entire ceremony, through all the boring speeches, fighting the unexpected sting of tears.

The elderly lady sitting next to him surreptitiously passed him a Kleenex. Her smile was understanding. "It's okay," she whispered to him, "everybody cries at these things. My granddaughter's my fifth college grad, and I _still_ cry."

He wondered which of the kids out there was her grandchild, and managed a wan smile in response. "I just wish his mother was here."


End file.
